Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  Without wasting another word, Mr Ambrose stepped up beside old Ben’s draisine and heaved. With a strangled groan, half from his throat, half from the protesting metal and wood, the vehicle keeled over, and everything that had been inside toppled onto the tunnel floor.

  ‘Hey!’ Old Ben rose from his sitting position, waving his sausage around threateningly. ‘Now, look here young fellow, you can’t just…’

  I didn’t hear any more. Mr Ambrose came running towards me. He jumped onto our draisine and uttered a single, decisive word: ‘Move!’

  Knowing all too well what he meant, I jumped on, gripped one end of the see-saw, and pushed. We shot forward, past old Ben and his bloody sausage, towards… towards what? Freedom? Escape?

  ‘Get them! Get them!’

  A shot whistled over my head, and I ducked, my heart hammering faster.

  Well, at least we were rushing away from the heavily armed hunting party, that much was sure. The draisine tilted, and off we went down another decline.

  ‘Hands off the see-saw!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘Get down and stay out of sight!’

  He didn’t follow his own advice. Instead, he knelt down right behind the mine cart container and laid the barrel of his gun on top of the metal, narrowing his eyes. I was beside him in a flash.

  ‘What are you doing, Sir?’ I demanded.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay out of sight, Mr Linton.’

  I cupped one hand behind an ear in a mock gesture. ‘Excuse me? The wind is so loud I hardly understand what you are saying. You want me to stay by your side?’

  ‘Out of sight, Mr Linton. Out - of - sight!’

  ‘By your side it is, then, Sir.’

  Another shot whistled over our heads. Mr Ambrose didn’t move an inch. Only the barrel of his gun made a minuscule movement, going half an inch upwards. He didn’t look at me.

  ‘You, Mr Linton, are the most irritating personage I have ever encountered in my life. If you must risk getting shot, do it quietly. I am trying to concentrate.’

  ‘What are you doing, Sir?’

  ‘I mentioned quietude just now.’

  ‘I’ll be quiet if you tell me what you are doing.’

  ‘I am trying to shoot those inconsiderate gentlemen behind us.’

  ‘But I thought you said they were too far away to be hit with a revolver.’

  Suddenly, an ear-splitting explosion jarred my skull. It threw me backwards so hard I smashed painfully into the wood of the draisine’s floor. If the other gunshots had been loud, this was beyond loud - because it came from right beside me. A flash of light flared up at the mouth of Mr Ambrose’s revolver, and from somewhere up the tunnel I heard a roar, mingled with curses.

  Mr Ambrose turned to me, his sea-coloured eyes glinting in the gloom.

  ‘They were before,’ he said. ‘No longer. They’re catching up. Stay down!’

  For once, I could find no words to reply. I didn’t know much about shooting, but I knew enough to guess that this had been one hell of a shot. A much better one than any city financier should be capable of. But then, I had already known that Mr Ambrose was more than that. Much more.

  Two gunshots answered him out of the darkness. They slammed into the tunnel wall not far above our heads, and at the same moment, I saw grim satisfaction flashing in Mr Ambrose’s eyes.

  ‘Why do you look so content?’ I groaned. ‘They nearly hit us!’

  ‘Yes.’ With a soft click, he rotated the cylinder of his revolver. The next bullet was in place. ‘But only twice. The third man wasn’t shooting.’

  The meaning of his words came to me in a rush - the man had to be gravely wounded - or dead. For a long moment, I wondered if that should bother me. It probably should. I knew that Ella would be weeping or screaming in terror in my place. But all I felt was… excitement.

  ‘Can you teach me to shoot like that?’

  Mr Ambrose’s hand, resting on the wall of the metal container again, jerked, and his next shot flew wide of the mark.

  ‘What?’ he hissed.

  ‘Can you teach me to shoot? I’d like to learn.’

  A shot hit the metal wall of the draisine, which reverberated like a church bell. Mr Ambrose ducked, as a second shot raced over his head.

  ‘You cannot be serious!’ he hissed.

  ‘Of course I am, Sir. Wouldn’t it be useful to have some more firepower right now?’

  ‘But you… you are a…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Linton.’

  My eyes sparked.

  ‘You were about to admit that I am female!’

  ‘Nothing of the kind, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Stop with the Mister already! I am a girl! And girls could use guns just as well as men, if somebody took the trouble to teach them.’

  Another shot hit the draisine. And another.

  ‘This is hardly the right time to discuss gender politics, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose glared at me with a cold intensity that would have sent a pack of lions running for the hills. I didn’t back down an inch.

  ‘Indeed? And why not, Sir?’

  ‘Because,’ he said in a deliberate voice, ‘we are about to reach the end of the tunnel. And when we do, we need to run.’

  My head whirled around - and light stung my eyes.

  He was right! I had been so focused on him and the men who were after us that I hadn’t noticed how the tunnel around us had become steadily brighter and brighter. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they had, I could make out a patch of bright blue. Sky? No, it glittered. The sea! The Mediterranean. Dear God, the tunnel didn’t open onto the sea, did it? I had a brief flash of Mr Ambrose and me plunging three hundred feet to our deaths, to provide a meal for the lobsters of the island, eager to take revenge on humans for the massacre the cooks of France had committed among their people. Not a jolly thought. Especially since I hadn’t eaten a single lobster in my life.

  Suddenly, though, there was brown and green mixed in with the blue. I caught the blurred forms of bushes and grass. Grass didn’t grow on the Mediterranean. Huzzah!

  Behind me, another shot from Mr Ambrose’s revolver ripped the air apart. Quickly, I pressed my hands to my ears. My head was beginning to hurt.

  ‘Why don't you take your own advice, Sir, and do that more quietly?’

  ‘I am afraid nobody has yet invented a noiseless gun, Mr Linton.’

  ‘How disappointing!’

  He didn’t even glance at me, which, under the circumstances, I suppose I could understand. His eyes were firmly trained on our pursuers. ‘Back to the matter at hand, Mr Linton. Do you see the exit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it far ahead?’

  ‘No, I don't think so.’ I growled. ‘These aren’t the best circumstances to judge distances, though. I don't have a yardstick, and I’ve never sat on a draisine racing downhill in a mining tunnel with shooting maniacs right behind me, before.’

  ‘You don't say. What do you see outside?’

  ‘Why don't you look yourself, Sir?’

  ‘There’s this small matter of me trying to shoot our pursuers before they shoot us; it is distracting me slightly. Now - what do you see?’

  I squinted in the direction of the opening again. The light outside was still so bright in comparison with the tunnel’s gloom that I could hardly make out anything.

  ‘Some bushes, I think. Grass.’

  ‘Good. As soon as we leave the tunnel, we are going to throw ourselves into those bushes.’

  ‘To disrupt the nests of innocent nightingales, Sir?’

  ‘To cushion our fall, Mr Linton. Cover your face with your arms so your eyes won’t be stabbed by a branch. And… be careful.’

  I had just opened my mouth for a witty comeback, but closed it again. Had I heard right? Mr Rikkard Ambrose had just wasted valuable time and breath telling me to be careful? Not only that, but he had sounded genuinely concerned. Could it be that he…?

  Another gunshot sheared throu
gh my half-finished thought. Hurriedly, I turned my gaze from Mr Ambrose to the approaching exit. I had to keep an eye on it. He was guarding our backs, making sure those sons of bachelors didn’t get us. I had to do my part.

  ‘We’re getting close,’ I announced. Sweat had started to bead on my forehead again, although the air in the tunnel was still icy, and I was just sitting, doing nothing, only watching. ‘On the count of three we have to jump.’

  He gave a grunt, and fired again. I took a deep breath.

  ‘One,’ I called.

  Two more shots burst from his revolver, and the enemy answered.

  ‘Two.’

  He slowly pulled back his revolver and crouched lower, preparing to jump.

  ‘Um… two and a half.’

  ‘What? Mr Linton, what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I misjudged the distance, all right? Two and three quarters!’

  ‘Your version of a countdown is not very reliable, Mr Linton!’

  ‘Why? I said on the count of three, and on the count of three it'll be. Two and four fifths!’

  ‘Mr Linton…!’

  ‘Three!’

  I snatched his arm and hurled myself sideways, into free air.

  Rising Waves

  Mr Ambrose had suggested that the bushes would cushion our fall. I didn’t know what kind of cushion he preferred, but the landing in the bushes gave me a pretty good idea. Basalt, maybe? Sandstone?

  By the time I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill on which the bushes were perched, I felt as though I had been squeezed through a meat-grinder. A strangled moan escaped from my throat.

  ‘You should have rolled,’ a cool voice commented from above me.

  ‘I did roll! I did nothing but roll and jump and bump! I feel like a flipping football!’

  ‘I mean actively. To break your fall.’ A firm hand gripped mine and pulled me up so quickly I couldn’t even try to protest. In a moment, I was standing beside Mr Ambrose, whose red uniform - curse him! - somehow still looked immaculate. He hadn’t even gotten one twig in his smooth, shiny black hair.

  For a moment, we stood like this, each close enough to hear the other’s heart beating, our hands intertwined. Then he let go and abruptly turned.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘There they are!’ The gruff voice from the tunnel entrance was much too familiar. ‘Get them!’

  Behind us, a shot rang out. It was the starting signal for our race. We dove into the brushes, and now I blessed the thick foliage I had cursed a moment ago. Bullets whipped through the forest to my right and left, but none hit Mr Ambrose or me. We were too well hidden among the green leaves. As quickly as possible, we slid between the trees, farther away from the tunnel.

  Suddenly, Mr Ambrose stopped.

  ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Oh really?’ I hissed. ‘This isn’t the right time for your obsession with silence! We’ve got to run, and I don't care how loudly we do it! We-’

  ‘No. I mean, I heard something. Be quiet and listen, just for a second.’

  Grudgingly, I did as he told me. Over the hammering of my own heart I couldn’t hear anything, at first. Then, slowly, I began to hear a low chatter, far off on the other side of the undergrowth.

  ‘Voices!’ I exclaimed.

  Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘Yes. Probably the crowd at the harbour. If we can reach it in time, we’ll be safe!”

  Without another word, he dove between two bushes and disappeared.

  Muttering a low curse, I followed. The farther I got, the louder the voices became. I redoubled my effort, almost running headlong, raising my arms to shield my face from the sharp branches that attacked me from all sides. It was with a shocking suddenness that I stumbled out of the trees and into the open, onto a square paved with cobblestones.

  The harbour. We had really managed to reach the harbour. In front of me stretched a wide, seaside promenade, with dozens of people strolling up and down, enjoying the view. Some of them glanced towards the forest when I burst out from between the trees, and looked more than a little surprised by the sight of a soldier with leaves and twigs in his bird’s nest of hair, but most were too busy watching the ships arrive and leave.

  Or, to be more precise - two ships arriving, one ship leaving. The ones that were arriving looked older, but the one that was about to embark was a brand-new steamship. Passengers were just getting on board the shiny, new vessel, all looking like wealthy tourists returning to England after a wonderful holiday. For a moment, my eyes fixed on the cursive word emblazoned on the ship’s hull: Urania.

  Quickly, I threw a sideways glance at Mr Ambrose and saw in his eyes the mirror of my own thought: our only chance. We rushed forward, slipping into the line at the gangway of the luxurious ship, and ignoring the protest of a thick-set French gentleman right behind us.

  ‘Two tickets to England, please,’ I gasped, slamming my hands on the counter of the official at the gangway to steady myself.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’ the man asked, looking at me with his nostrils instead of his eyes. But I worked for Mr Rikkard Ambrose! This little Frenchman’s derisive glances were nothing in comparison to the ones I had learned to withstand.

  ‘Tickets. To England. You do sell tickets to England, don't you?’

  ‘Naturalement, Monsieur - since this is our vessel’s only destination.’

  ‘Well, then, you heard my companion.’ Mr Ambrose stepped up beside me and fixed the official with an icy glare. ‘Two tickets to England, third class.’

  The official didn’t back down. If anything, his look became even more disgusted. ‘Third class, Monsieur? I am afraid you have the wrong vessel. This is a ship of a respectable line, offering its services only to the better classes of society. We have no cabins of third class on board.’

  Behind the granite mask on Mr Ambrose’s face, a momentous struggle seemed to be going on. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His left little finger jerked erratically. Finally, he managed to say: ‘Fine! Second class, then! How much does it cost?’

  The official seemed to decide that looking at us with his nostrils was too great an honour for us, and he switched to regarding us with his wobbly chin instead.

  ‘There is no second class, either, Monsieur. Please remove yourself. You are holding up the line.’

  I saw Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitch again, violently.

  ‘Two tickets, first class, to England,’ I said, before he could do anything he would later regret.

  His head whipped around to stare at me. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, his tone low and hard.

  ‘Saving our skins from your miserly ways,’ I shot back amiably. ‘I hope you have enough money on you.’

  He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short by the official.

  ‘First class? As you could pay half the sum required! I have no time for your silly jokes, Messieurs. Remove yourselves immediately, or I will be forced to call security.’

  Slowly, Mr Ambrose turned back towards the man. When the Frenchman caught sight of his eyes, he flinched back.

  Mr Ambrose reached into his jacket and drew out a wallet. Opening it with deliberation, he pulled out two one hundred pound notes and slammed them down on the counter.

  ‘You can give me my change when we arrive in England,’ he said, his voice cold enough to freeze sunlight in mid-air. ‘I wish to be shown to my cabin. Now.’

  ‘W-why, certainly, Monsieur. At once, Monsieur.’

  Staring incredulously at the banknotes, the official waved one of his underlings over. ‘Quick! Pierre! Take these two gentlemen to the best cabins on the ship. Now!’

  ‘But Monsieur, the best cabins on the ship are occupied by…’

  ‘Do it!’

  As we were led off by the bewildered young man, who kept sneaking glances back at his superior, Mr Ambrose leant over to me and whispered:

  ‘The money for the tickets shall be deducted from your wages, Mr Linton.’

  And for some reason, this
didn’t make me want to snarl back at him. It made me smile.

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘Get them! Get the-’

  The soldiers fell silent the moment they stumbled out of the undergrowth onto the seaside promenade, and several hundred people turned to stare at them. They seemed to realize several things at once: firstly, their prey was nowhere to be seen, secondly, they were wearing British Indian Army uniforms on French territory, and thirdly, the crowd did not seem to appreciate the guns they were waving around.

  ‘Ehem.’ One of the soldiers, probably the commanding officer, cleared his throat. ‘S-sorry if me and my friends gave you alarm. We… just had a bit too much to drink. Got a bit above ourselves, that’s all.’

  Weak though the explanation was, it was generally accepted, and as the soldiers lowered their guns, the crowd slowly returned to their business. The men - there were only two; Mr Ambrose had indeed hit the third one, apparently - huddled together and began whispering.

  Up on the deck of the Urania, Mr Ambrose and I crouched behind the ship’s railing, peering through the gaps down into the harbour.

  ‘What do you think they will do now, Sir?’ I asked.

  ‘They are alone and do not know what to do. They will not risk attracting the attention of the crowd in order to find us. They have no authority here. Were Dalgliesh present, it might be different, but with things being as they are, we have a chance - if the ship leaves before they get reinforcements or, worse, support from the French authorities.’

  ‘Do you really think the French are in on this?’

  Mr Ambrose’s face was grim. Even more so than usual.

  ‘I’m convinced of it. Dalgliesh is no fool. He wouldn’t set up his base in an environment he cannot control. Our only chance is to get away before the authorities can be notified.’

  As he spoke, one of the soldiers darted off and up towards the centre of the island like a bullet shot from a gun. The other one began moving among the crowd, stopping people, asking questions. We remained where we were, watching, our anxiety rising with every minute. Or at least my anxiety was rising with every minute. I wasn’t sure about that of Mr Ambrose, or about whether he had any at all. His face still looked like the bust of some stoic philosopher, only without the long beard and the toga.